This Is the Chronicle of the Falsely Accused
by LetMeWriteYouAStory
Summary: John H. Watson is living in London in 1939 when Britain declares war on Germany, and World War Two begins. He enlists on the Allied side as an army doctor, seeking adventure and honor. But in a losing battle, John becomes a prisoner of war in a German camp. Eventually, his path will cross with a wanted criminal with a terrible history. T for language, violence/gore/warfare, etc.
1. Fighter Planes

**Hi there! :D Thanks so much for checking out my story! I hope you love it, and hopefully I'll be updating it weekly, although it might be difficult because it's a busy time of year and this story's taking a lot of research. But stick with me through this! :)**

**Beware: there's probably going to be angst. And feelsy parts. And cliffhangers. And possibly gore. Because those things are my favorite. BEWARE.**

**I also promise I won't do any author's notes during or after the chapter, because I hate reading something really dramatic, and then an author's note pops up and ruins the mood. Ew.**

**Feel free to review, we all love 'em!**

**Also, I'm just going to say now, you will find no lemons in this fanfic. No me gusta "lemons." Lemons _sour_ character relationships for me. (See what I did there?) ****So please, go pick lemons elsewhere. **

**I think that's about it... :)**

* * *

**This Is the Chronicle of the Falsely Accused.**

**Chapter One: Fighter Planes.**

**August 7th, 1914. Bridgewater, Britain. **

She stood at a table, in a kitchen covered in new wallpaper. Right beside a window, cool, lazy air brought in a fruity aroma. The woman bent over her work, kneading dough firmly with sore palms, and continuously pushing her long blonde tresses back over her shoulder absentmindedly. Flour was scattered through her hair and across the front of her blue apron, but she hardly noticed its presence. Her mind was far away.

_He cannot go. He mustn't go._

The woman looked up at the folded newspaper on the other end of the table. The title was bold and black and excited: "**WE'VE DECLARED WAR ON THE CENTRAL POWERS!**" She rubbed her eyes with her little finger to keep herself from tearing up. The idea of her husband going to off to fight was a terrifying one, yes. But who was she to stop him from standing up for justice?

Because if there was one thing the two of them believed in, it most certainly was justice.

From upstairs, there was a string of muffled thuds followed by an angry yell. Margaret was well accustomed to this commotion from her children, and carried on. When she heard the sound of distraught whimpering, however, she stepped back from the baking, attempted to brush the flour from her hands, and headed out the door into the dining room.

Right on cue, Margaret heard unsteady feet come stumbling down the hall stairs, and seconds later a compact little figure came into the room, tears rolling down plump cheeks.

His hair was dirty blonde, short and scruffy, and one side of his face was distinctly redder than the other, like he had been slapped. Just three years old, he wore a light jumper and dark trousers. He ran over to his mother and clumsily clung to her skirt with pudgy hands.

The woman bent down, doing the routine check for any cuts, bumps or bruises. Finding none, she placed her hands on either side of his face.

"Darling, what's the matter?"

The chubby child hiccuped despairingly. Margaret held him and patted his back with sympathy.

"Harry keeps-_hic_-taking-_hic_-my planes."

The woman sighed, turning her gaze towards the second level of the house. Harry did love to create trouble. She stood, pulling the stocky boy into her arms with her. He was covered now in a thin layer of flour, and she struggled o stifle a laugh.

"Alright, alright," she consoled her child with false seriousness, tapping his round nose. "Come on, John, let's go talk to nasty Harry. We'll get your planes back."

Little John did not seem convinced. As they approached the upstairs bedroom, he kept eyeing the doorway with suspicion on his features.

Margaret carried him into Harry and John's shared nursery. It was cozy and green, with a large open window that made the room glow like the heavens. The naughty seven year old sat content on John's bed, her light blonde curls springing as she moved a little red wooden plane through the air with spluttering noises.

Looking up and seeing her mother and her kid brother, Harry scowled, clutching the toy ever tighter.

Margaret set John on the floor. He crossed his arms and puffed out his little chest in determination.

"Harry," Margaret began.

Harry only turned to face the wide window. The plane spun around in her fingers with agility.

"Harry," Margaret repeated, "give John back his planes."

"No."

Before Margaret could insist otherwise, John had tottered across the room to the low bed. "Please, Harry?" He tried to pull himself up, but landed back on the floor with a bump.

"No."

"But they- they're mine!" John protested. His brows were furrowed; his dark blue eyes glittered with moisture.

"Why?" Harry cried suddenly, turning to face her brother with malice in her green eyes. "Why do only you get them? Why can't they be mine, too?"

Margaret stood back, simply observing. It was unusual that the duo argued over anything without it coming to blows.

John's young mind seemed stuck on the question. Finally, he answered, "Because... because Daddy gave them to me. Just me! So they're mine!"

Harry sniffled almost furiously. She picked at a button on her skirt.

"Well, can't I play with them at all?"

John whined, and fiddled with his hands, clearly not wanting his big sister to have his special planes from his father.

But Harry used John's hesitation to attack again. Tossing the airplane aside, she scrambled to the edge of the bed, hanging over John. The bed creaked as she leaned further and further forward.

"Well, you're being selfish. Daddy wouldn't be selfish."

This one hit John hard. He looked from Harry, to the planes, and then to his mother, who remained silent, and back again. After much internal debate, John huffed and gave in.

"Alright, you can play with my planes. ...Not all the time, though," he added hastily, as an afterthought.

Harry grinned. John mumbled something irritably under his breath.

"What did you say?" Harry asked, not really paying attention, but already picking one of the planes back up.

"You, you still hit me," John pointed to his pink cheek, like a wounded puppy.

Margaret raised her eyebrows. "Harriet?"

Harry cringed, hurt at the use of her full name. Even her parents rarely used it.

"I'm sorry, John," she sighed under her breath, somewhat unconvincingly.

But John was now satisfied. He waddled back to his mother, and tugged on her skirts again.

"I'm like Daddy," he beamed. "Daddy isn't selfish."

Margaret chuckled. "You are like your father. Very much."

And the statement was completely true. He was a carbon copy of his father. John had the same hair, the same eyes, and the same large ears, everything except his father's lanky stature. The way he stood, and even the way his face crinkled up when he was upset, very much mirrored the behavior of Hamish Watson.

John nodded. "I'll be like Daddy when I grow up, too! Just like him."

Harry scoffed as if this were the wildest of fantasies. "No you won't."

Spinning around suddenly, John flew towards the bed, and pulled himself up like a bullet, jumping in front of Harriet. "I will too! I'll be big and strong, and a soldier just like Daddy."

Margaret Watson gasped. The children weren't supposed to know about that yet. She started to step towards them.

"Please," Harry continued, "you're much too little to be a soldier! You wouldn't make it a week."

"I would!" John yelled, shoving Harry fiercely in the shoulder. "I'll be the bravest soldier! I'll have a gun and a big helmet just like Marcus' father does, and I'll be the best soldier anyone's ever heard of. Just like Daddy."

Margaret had to intervene. She hurried over, pulling John, now winding up a chubby fist, away from Harry, who laughed mockingly, sticking out her tongue.

"How did you two know about Daddy becoming a soldier?"

Margaret and Hamish had in fact only had the conversation the night before, after he had come home from work. They had been planning on telling the children soon, but not this soon.

"We stayed up," Harry chirped proudly. "We hadn't fallen asleep yet, and we heard you and Daddy talking."

Margaret sat down on the bed next to her two children. "I want you to listen to me now. Being a soldier can be very scary. Daddy's not going to be home a lot, and he might get... hurt while he's away."

"I know, John chimed in quickly, as if his mother was speaking only to him. "But Daddy will be alright. He's brave. Daddy's fighting against the bad guys."

"That's... that's right," Margaret sighed, choking up just a bit, "He is."

Harry straightened up. "When is Daddy leaving?"

Her mother put an arm around her comfortingly. "I don't know. I don't know how long he'll be gone, either. There's no way to tell." She hesitated. "Are you two... alright with Daddy's decision?"

Both children nodded easily. "I'll miss Daddy, though," Harry said, as if he were already gone.

* * *

Several minutes later, Margaret was downstairs again, shaping the bread more slowly than before. Still lost in thought, she failed to realize when John had walked into the kitchen until he uttered a sad, "Mommy?"

Margaret jumped, and turned to face the toddler. "John! Yes, what is it, love?"

John frowned, eyebrows deeply furrowed. He stepped back and forth nervously, curling his hands into fists over and over again.

"Harry says I can't be a soldier like Daddy."

There was a short silence. John sniffled, and his mother smiled, a little unsure of what to say. "Do you want to be a soldier, John?"

"Yes."

"Well," she began, crouching again in front of he little boy, "I think it doesn't matter what Harry says."

"It doesn't?" John's navy blue eyes shone. He wiped a stray tear from his red nose.

"Not even a little. If you want to be a soldier, then of course you can be. You can be whatever you want to be, John."

John blushed and grinned, showing little dimples. "I will be a soldier. I will be just like Daddy."

Margaret ruffled the little boy's hair. "John Hamish Watson, I know you will."


	2. A First Comrade

**Thanks so much for the follows, guys! It means a lot! **

**This chapter is also introduction more than anything else, so I'm looking forward to actually getting to the intense parts. :D**

**And I'm not a history expert, so there are probably some parts that aren't 100% percent correct. So if you are a history expert, or a Time Lord (Like I am, shh), I apologize for any inconsistencies I may have. :)**

* * *

**This Is the Chronicle of the Falsely Accused.**

**CHapter Two: A First Comrade.**

**September 9th, 1939. London, England.**

John Watson loosened his tie, and unfastened the top button of his shirt with sweaty fingers. He plucked his hat from his head, fanning himself with it. He wiped sweat droplets from his forehead, and his heart thumped in his chest. The adrenaline coursing through his system combined with the unusual heat of the September London sun gave him a feeling of lightheadedness.

The line in which he stood was hardly moving. It stretched on ahead, and then around the corner for another one hundred feet or so, before ducking into the low roof of a city building. A freshly painted banner decorated the entrance:

_"London Enlistment Office!"_

The long line was composed of men and some women, all looking similarly fatigued. Yellow collections of papers stuck out of handbags, pants pockets, breast pockets, and even some belts. Many were fanning themselves with them. John's stuck out of his vest pocket, and they, like everyone else's, contained all the necessary records to enlist. Date of birth, medical history, education, you name it. John himself had spent a few years earning his liberal arts degree, and then, he'd studied for four years at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London for medicine and surgery, with one more year, an internship, to complete his studies. He was completely qualified.

Many people in the line had removed hats and vests, and women took off their jackets and unbuttoned the collars of their dresses, not provocatively, but only for the sake of trying to keep cool.

And all around the line there were children. Some were the children of the applicants, brought along for the trip; others were just curious. They ran about chasing each other, or wheeling around toy automobiles. Some kneeled on the sidewalk, poring over newspapers. A boy and a girl nearby tossed a dirty cap back and forth.

_I should not have to fight for this,_ he though solemnly. _There should never have to be a reason to fight for this._

John pursed his lips at the thought of all the good things he was going to fight for. And the horrific lengths to which the Germans were willing to go to destroy them.

Placing his own hat back upon his blond head, his thoughts drifted to his own family. Not a wife and children, for he had neither, but a mother and a sister. He remembered when he had informed them that he was enlisting, just days ago. They had both seen his decision coming, but that hadn't made it any less difficult. Harry had taken it better, or so John had thought. She'd steeled her expression, but then hugged him longer and more firmly than she ever had before. It wasn't until the next day that John had learned that his big sister had gone out and drank until she was thrown from the bars.

His mother, though, had been a different story entirely. She had simply sobbed, and she clung to him like one would cling to their sole chance of survival. She had attempted to bribe him; she had downright begged him to stay. She could not bear to lose him, she said, not after she had lost her husband, their father, to a different war.

That was a sad story that they rarely talked about anymore.

But John had been insistent. This was his chance to be a part of something important. His father had the courage, and now John needed to follow in his footsteps. Hopefully, he would not follow them to the grave.

On top of that, there was a part of John Watson that wanted adventure, and honor. He just had to do this. He had to fight back against what he thought was wrong.

Far ahead in the line, John caught sight of a man, tall with dark curls. John felt a sense of old familiarity. He was sure he had seen this man before.

The man turned his head at that moment, showing a dark complexion and brown eyes. It was Mr. Milson. He used to worked in a shop down the road from John's home growing up. John hadn't seen him since he was a boy. He would give John and his sister sweets. He could not picture kind Mr. Milson fighting in a war. Everyone, though, it seemed, was eager to enlist. Everyone's lives were changing.

But the man directly in front of John was definitely one who he'd never previously encountered. He was a few inches taller than John, with a gray flat cap over very short dark hair. The heat and the waiting clearly had him agitated. He moved his arms from crossed on his chest, to at his sides, to in his pockets, and shifted his weight constantly.

Finally, this man turned around to John. "This is taking bloody forever," he griped, rolling his dark eyes. "I can't believe this; by the time we all get ourselves in there, Hitler will have already conquered most of the world."

John laughed, bitterly. "Well. There's certainly a morbid way to think about it."

"War's a morbid thing," said the man, squinting and looking towards the sky. His complexion was slightly tan. "I figure, at least if I'm negative about it, then I'm more likely to be surprised." He shrugged.

John nodded. The two stepped further forward in line.

"What position are you going in for?"

The man shrugged nonchalantly a second time. "I dunno. Wherever they put me, I guess. Not sure exactly what they'll do with someone like me. How 'bout you?"

John cleared his throat. "Medical doctor," he said, and nodded towards the location of the London hospital. "I studied at Bart's for seven… eight years."

The man seemed surprised. He looked at John, almost scrutinizing him. "Huh."

"What is it?"

The individual shook his head, dismissing whatever thoughts he had. "Nothing." He held out a hand suddenly. "My name's Greg. Greg Lestrade."

John smiled cordially, taking the man's hand firmly. "John Watson. Pleased to meet you."

* * *

It took a little while after that for the two to make it into the building. They were taken into two separate rooms in a long hall of doorways. John was interviewed, and his papers looked over, and the men behind the desk nodded, impressed. Then he was sent into a second room, where he was checked over for lice, illnesses, his blood pressure, heartbeat, the works.

When he was finally deemed completely healthy, save a small bruise on his side, they nodded again, and stamped his papers. John had been accepted. He was to report in a week's time to the nearby square adjacent to the train station for departure to training camp.

After all this was finished, John was walking out the back entrance, into the sun, when Greg Lestrade came up next to him again.

"Accepted," he said casually. "You?"

John smiled and held up his stamped papers as well. Mr. Lestrade nodded. "Good. I'm not very well acquainted with most of these blokes, and frankly, the lot of them look either brutal, or just weak." He tilted his head. "But you, Dr. Watson, you seem alright. See you in a week?"

And then Mr. Lestrade was gone. John had just met one of his comrades.

* * *

**September 16th, 1939.**

The week passed uneventfully, if still anxiously and sadly. John had packed the few necessary items into a suitcase, and Harry gave him her scratched up pocket watch, which she had inherited from their father. John had also received his uniform at the enlistment office, and so he tried it on quite often. He liked the way he felt wearing it, the way he immediately stood straighter, with shoulders back and chin up.

He felt like a true soldier. He felt like his father.

The day finally arrived. He was to report early on that Tuesday morning, and so was up just before the sun. Harry and his mother had come over from their own London dwellings to say goodbye. They cooked a quick breakfast for him while he gathered his things, and afterwards walked with John to the square right outside the train station.

He reported his attendance, and the stiff-postured officer nodded and checked him off from a list. John turned back to his little family. They were all he had. All he was leaving behind.

His mother looked tired and worn. But she smiled, and raised a hand to her son's cheek.

"I've been expecting this day to since you could walk." She forced a laugh, and her voice broke. "You father… he would be so incredibly proud of you."

John opened his mouth to speak, filling up with sentiment, but could not, as his mother gripped him in a hug that was fiercer than it would've looked like she was even capable of.

"Please. Come back to me," she whispered hoarsely.

John chuckled a little. He wasn't sure why. "I promise I will, Mum."

She released him, tucking a strand of graying hair behind her ear.

John turned to his sister. He was taken aback at her expression. Tears were rolling down her face, and her lip quivered with the effort she was using to not full-out cry. Had he ever seen her cry? John could not remember. She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and looked down at her toes.

"Harry-"

"See you soon." She looked up. In her eyes he could see that it was an order. And then Harry turned and walked away, her blonde ringlets dancing in the day's cool breeze.

His mother cast him one last look. "I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you too."

And then she was gone too.

John picked up his suitcase and in little time he was climbing onto the train. The sounds of men laughing and joking around filled the car, and all of the compartments were mostly full. John wandered uncomfortably up the aisle, until the door at the other end of the car slid open loudly. Greg Lestrade came walking towards John, yet not noticing him. His luggage was in hand, and his shirt was a little disheveled. There was a faraway look in his eyes.

"Mr. Lestrade."

He jumped a little, and then his gaze focused on John. "Oh. Hello, John. Really, just Greg is fine."

"Yes, of course," John replied, still watching Greg's somewhat distracted expression skeptically. Perhaps it was just nerves. Greg pulled open a compartment door to his right, the last empty one.

He beckoned with his free hand. "Well, don't just stand there. Come on, then."

And with that, John followed Greg Lestrade, his first comrade, into the train compartment. Only minutes later the train pulled out of the station, and they were on their way. Into the war.


End file.
